In Death 01 - Naked in Death

as this, he doubted anyone would notice or care.
    Still, she was rather charmingly unskilled and naive. He settled on a slower, more gentle rhythm, which he discovered drew out his own pleasure.
    She moved well, meeting him, matching him. Unless he was very mistaken, not all her groans and cries were simulated. He felt her tense, shudder, and he smiled, pleased that he'd been able to bring a whore to a genuine climax.
    He closed his eyes and let himself come.
    She sighed and cuddled into one of the pillows. It had been good, much, much better than she'd expected. And she hoped she'd found another regular.
    "Was I a good girl, Daddy?"
    "A very, very good girl. But we're not done. Roll over."
    As she shifted, he rose and moved out of camera range. "Are we going to watch the video, Daddy?"
    He only shook his head.
    Remembering her role, she pouted. "I like videos. We can watch, and then you can show me how to be a good girl again." She smiled at him, hoping for a bonus. "I could touch you this time. I'd like to touch you."
    He smiled and took the SIG 210 with silencer out of his coat pocket. He watched her blink in curiosity as he aimed the gun.
    "What's that? Is it a toy for me to play with?"
    He shot her in the head first, the weapon barely making more than a pop as she jerked back. Coolly, he shot again, between those young, firm breasts, and last, as the silencer eroded, into her smooth, bare pubis.
    Switching the camera off, he arranged her carefully among blood-soaked pillows and soiled, smiling animals while she stared up at him in wide-eyed surprise.
    "It was no life for a young girl," he told her gently, then went back to the camera to record the last scene.

CHAPTER FIVE
    All Eve wanted was a candy bar. She'd spent most of the day testifying in court, and her lunch break had been eaten up by a call from a snitch that had cost her fifty dollars and gained her a slim lead on a smuggling case that had resulted in two homicides, which she'd been beating her head against for two months.
    All she wanted was a quick hit of sugar substitute before she headed home to prep for her seven o'clock meeting with Roarke.
    She could have zipped through any number of drive-through InstaStores, but she preferred the little deli on the corner of West Seventy-eighth -- despite, or perhaps because of the fact that it was owned and run by Francois, a rude, snake-eyed refugee who'd fled to America after the Social Reform Army had overthrown the French government some forty years before.
    He hated America and Americans, and the SRA had been dispatched within six months of the coup, but Francois remained, bitching and complaining behind the counter of the Seventy-eighth Street deli where he enjoyed dispensing insults and political absurdities.
    Eve called him Frank to annoy him, and dropped in at least once a week to see what scheme he'd devised to try to short credit her.
    Her mind on the candy bar, she stepped through the automatic door. It had no more than begun to whisper shut behind her when instinct kicked in.
    The man standing at the counter had his back to her, his heavy, hooded jacket masking all but his size, and that was impressive.
    Six-five, she estimated, easily two-fifty. She didn't need to see Francois's thin, terrified face to know there was trouble. She could smell it, as ripe and sour as the vegetable hash that was today's special.
    In the seconds it took the door to clink shut, she'd considered and rejected the idea of drawing her weapon.
    "Over here, bitch. Now."
    The man turned. Eve saw he had the pale gold complexion of a multiracial heritage and the eyes of a very desperate man. Even as she filed the description, she looked at the small round object he held in his hand.
    The homemade explosive device was worry enough. The fact that it shook as the hand that held it trembled with nerves was a great deal worse.
    Homemade boomers were notoriously unstable. The idiot was likely to kill all of them by sweating too freely.
    She shot Francois a quick, warning look. If he called her lieutenant, they were all going to be meat very quickly. Keeping her hands in plain sight, she crossed to the counter.
    "I don't want any trouble," she said, letting her voice tremble as nervously as the thief's hand. "Please, I got kids at home."
    "Shut up. Just shut up. Down on the floor. Down on the fucking floor."
    Eve knelt, slipping a hand under her jacket where the weapon waited.
    "All of it," the man ordered, gesturing with the